


A cry for help

by xNovilunium



Series: Milo's story [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Emotional Manipulation, Original Character(s), Other, School bullying implied, Self-Harm Attempt, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 07:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xNovilunium/pseuds/xNovilunium
Summary: He could see so much of himself in his father. They had the same droopy eyelids, the same ash-blond hair cut short, the same long and thin nose, the same mannerisms. And Milo hated this. He didn’t want to look like his father,becomehis father, so he had started to let his hair grow. He was sick of hearing people, classmates, tell him how they were alike, how he would be a great successor to his father in his company, how lucky he was that his father was working days and nights, so he would want for nothing, how thoughtful he was with his son since his wife left him for another man.





	A cry for help

He closed his eyes as his father slammed his fist on the table, making the tea cup roll then fall on the floor.

Milo knew his discussion with his father wouldn’t go as good as he had expected it. He knew he wouldn’t listen to him, listen to what was lying on his heart. When was the last time they had a correct discussion, without screams, without ending in tears? Milo couldn’t remember, but he had thought that talking to him about this, first thing in the morning, would be the best thing to do.

The man was sitting in front of him, the newspaper he was reading now soaked with Earl Grey, his face red, the vein on his forehead throbbing, fists clenched and spitting words Milo was now used to hearing every now and then.

A shame. A worthless son. Someone he had expected so much from. Someone who wasn’t seeing how lucky he was.

Milo was used to it, but it wasn’t making the words less painful.

He could see so much of himself in his father. They had the same droopy eyelids, the same ash-blond hair cut short, the same long and thin nose, the same mannerisms. And Milo hated this. He didn’t want to look like his father, _become_ his father, so he had started to let his hair grow. He was sick of hearing people, classmates, tell him how they were alike, how he would be a great successor to his father in his company, how lucky he was that his father was working days and nights, so he would want for nothing, how thoughtful he was with his son since his wife left him for another man.

If only they knew.

Milo had always wished for a father, not someone who wouldn’t even speak to him once he’d come back from work. He wanted a father who would ask him how his day had been, if everything had been alright in high school, if he had some difficulties with his homework and needed help. A father who would tease him about a girlfriend and give him a few advices – useless to his mind – and who would even tell him to ask her to spend an afternoon at home. He wanted a father who would laugh with him and sooth his every fear and doubt.

Instead, when Milo would come back home after a day putting up with his classmates’ daily teasing – and sometimes when luck wasn’t on his side, their punches and insults – it was only to hear his father tell him how ashamed he was his son couldn’t even defend himself against a few other boys. His father would take their treatment as a joke, telling him boys were like that sometimes when they were envious, jealous of someone else’s wealth and that he should start to get used to it. _Man up, face them and show them who you are. You’re my son, I didn’t raise a faggot._

Today’s discussion though, wasn’t about his bullies, but rather about his course choice.

His family – the one and only part he was still in touch with; his father’s – was full of CEOs, from father to son, so naturally Milo had to follow this path, whether he liked it or not. He had to be the best, had to have a good reputation and always give a good image of himself, no matter the situations.

He had to be the exact copy of his father.

“Dad, please, let me explain,” Milo started, hands shaking on his hips. He couldn’t look at his father, he didn’t want to see the shame and deception shinning in his eyes.

“There is nothing to explain, young man,” His father’s loud voice made him step backwards. He has never been violent with him, physically, but Milo shouldn’t feel too sure about it. Maybe one day he would get fed up with him and hit him, telling him it was his fault. Maybe he would tell him again his mother left them because of him, because she saw what kind of son he would become.

“If only you could… I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with–”

“Nothing wrong with what, Milo?” He said, his face close to Milo’s, so close he could see the veins in his eyes. “You want to turn your back on a good and stable future? And for what reason, because a girl told you you were good with your hands? Because she told you how good your drawings were?” He hit Milo’s chest with each question, making him step backwards even more until Milo felt the fridge against his back. “Everybody can draw, that won’t feed you. That isn’t a real job, boy!”

“Dad…”

“I’m working so hard every day for you so you can have something too eat, a good house, the best you could wish for, decent clothes and shoes, and this is how you thank me? After all I did for you since your mother left us?”

“No, that’s not what I meant! I…”

“You could at least be a little more grateful. Be happy you still have me.”

That too, Milo was used to hearing it. From his father, his aunt, his uncle, his older cousins, even from some of his friends. All would tell him how lucky he was to have a father so loving, a father who would do everything for his son, a father who only cared about his well-being. But did they know about the emotional manipulation? Did they know about the belittlement?

A curse made him open his eyes he hadn’t even noticed he’d closed and watched his father tie one of his many watches around his wrist before taking his bag and left the kitchen. As he put his shoes on, he turned to Milo one last time, eyebrows knitted together and sighed before saying, “You’re making me late with all your nonsense. I don’t know what I’ll do with you, but this discussion isn’t over. Thank you for ruining my morning, by the way.”

The front door slammed when he left the house. It was only when Milo couldn’t hear his car that he slid down against the fridge. He wrapped his too long legs with his arms and hid his face against his knees as he began to sob violently.

He didn’t know how many days – maybe weeks – he would be able to still endure all of this. The abuses at school, the ones at home, he wanted it all to end. Was it too selfish to have dreams? Was it too selfish to hope and follow them? Was it too selfish to be different?

Milo knew his father had no other choice than to follow his own father’s path and lead his company. But did it mean this was Milo’s future? He was a lively young man, he had no will to end like his father, trapped in the last floor of a building with so many responsibilities and pressure on his shoulders. Milo wasn’t built for that job.

He was weak, like his father would always say.

An hour passed before his legs and throat started to hurt him. Milo was tired, tired of crying, tired of going to school only to hear their words full of hate, tired of waiting for his father to come home and endure again the emotional abuse. Milo stood up, slowly, leaning on the worktop as tears began again to run on his cheeks. He dragged himself to the stairs and walked to his room leaving the door open and fell on his bed. He screamed in the pillows, hit the mattress, and clutched the blankets so tightly he sank his nails in his palms, making them bleed.

He should have known his father would never listen to him, listen to his projects for his own future. He had already planned everything for Milo since his birth. How could he understand that it wasn’t in Milo’s plan to succeed him? He didn’t want that. What Milo wanted was to become a book illustrator, something that was making him feel at ease. How could his father understand that it was one of the few things that was making him feel better?

His mother wouldn’t have been like that, surely not. She would have supported him, like she’s always done before she left them. Milo remembered how kind she was with everyone, their neighbours, his friends, his teachers. He remembered how she would always take time to read him a bedtime story, he remembered her being the first one to come into his room every time he would wake up from a nightmare, how warm her arms were around him, how nice she’d always smelt, her bright smile.

He had no idea what she could be doing now, nor where she could be. His father never wanted to talk about her. She left them one day as Milo was coming back from school and was surprised to not see her in the house. Her shoes were gone, her beautiful dresses too, and even the bright red pendant Milo had almost broken when he still was a baby. He had asked he father where she was, but his answer hadn’t been the kind he’d wanted to hear. _She met someone and left with him. Forget her kiddo, she doesn’t love you anymore._

It couldn’t be true. He knew his mother loved him dearly, even today, wherever she could be. She wouldn’t have accepted how his father was treating him, she would have done something to end the bullying.

But she wasn’t here with him, and he needed her more than anything.

His tears had long dried on his cheeks and neck when he got up from the bed and dragged himself to his desk. Textbooks, a full pencil case, a cup he forgot to bring downstairs again, his favourite novel, more school stuff, and just under his trembling hand, a shinning cutter blade. Would the pain stop if he’d put an end to his life? Or was he really the coward his father thought he was?

With shaking hands, he put the tip of the blade on his wrist and told himself to count to three, breathing slowly in and out, his mind blank, ready.

His eyes laid on a picture framed in wood. A picture of himself and one of his best friends.

The blade flew across the room, his eyes wide as he tugged on his hair, falling back on the bed. He was a coward after all. A selfish coward. He couldn’t do this to her, couldn’t do this to Maeva.

They practically grew up together, Maeva’s father being his dad’s childhood friend. With only four years separating them, Maeva was there for him since his mother left. It was more difficult at school, but whenever she could, she was there to kick some asses. They had done so many things together, shared so many secrets and tears. He couldn’t leave her like that.

Milo grabbed his phone on the nightstand and quickly dialled her number.

_“Hello?”_ A sleepy voice answered after five beeps. _“Who’s the idiot who’s waking me up at… not even 8 in the morning?”_

“I’m sorry Maeva…”

_“Milo?”_ He heard her stand up and open the door of her wardrobe, already getting ready for whatever reason he’d called her. It wasn’t the first time, and she didn’t need to hear an explanation. _“Are you okay? What’s happening?”_

“I’m so sorry… Could you come, please? I, I made a mistake.”

_“I’m on my way, dear.”_ Keys jingled, and a door slammed.

“The door’s open.”

_“Good, don’t touch anything. I’m with you soon.”_

True to her words, Milo heard the front door open a few minutes after they’d hung up.

Maeva scurried in the stairs, the sound of her boots on the wood echoing through the house, and stepped in his room, panting.

As soon as she wrapped her arms around his body, Milo couldn’t help himself but shed more tears once again. His hands clutched on her forearms, he let her kiss the back of his head, whispering soothing words against his hair, the smell of cigarettes embracing him, a sign she’s been worrying on her way here.

Milo didn’t know he could still cry so much after all the tears he had shed not even an hour before. And it felt good to have her with him, pressed against his back and drawing circles on his body. Her presence had always been so soothing to him, even as kids.

He would have never found the strength to kill himself.

She moved behind him, removed her boots, and straddled him to lay before him. Face to face. Her hair was a mess of red curls, a few strands stuck against her tanned skin, her brown eyes smudged with the eyeliner she hadn’t removed last night. A ball of her bridge piercing was missing, and she had changed her spike on her bottom lip for a ring. Maeva rested her head in the palm of her head and the smile she gave him brought tears to his eyes.

“I, I tried to talk to my dad,” Milo said after a long moment of silence, his voice hoarse.

“Tell me.”

And Milo did. He told her everything, the screams, his father’s words, his will to die sign of a moment of panic, a thought that it was his only solution.

Maeva listened to him, silently, only wiping away the tears under his eyes. He needed to cry, and she would let him cry as long as he wanted to.

“So, I guess you didn’t tell him about your little secret.” Maeva said as he hid his face against her neck and wrapped his arms around her.

“It would have been worse. He might even punch me or kill me.”

“He would?”

“Not everyone has an open-minded father like yours, Maeva.”

“You’re right.” It hadn’t been easy for her father to accept the fact that his daughter loved girls, but he had never stopped loving her and her happiness was more important to her parents than who she was dating. She sat up suddenly, startling Milo who yawned in his hand. Her eyes shining and with a bright smile on her lips she said, “I have an idea. Go take a shower, I’ll pack your stuff.”

“For what?”

“You’re moving in with me.”

“Maeva.” He sighed then sat against the headboard. “I appreciated it, a lot, but you know I can’t. I’m still underage.”

“Not in a few couple of weeks.”

“He won’t let me leave. You know it.”

“Right…” She bit her bottom lip, arms crossed thinking about another solution. “We’ll find something else, I promise. Now go take your shower, we’re leaving.”

“Why?”

“You need to be with friends today I saw the blade when I came, you’re not gonna get rid of me buddy.”

For the first time since he woke up, Milo’s lips stretched in a smile. He didn’t know what to do, none of them knew, but he knew he could count on her.

He never was alone.


End file.
